


Livin' Proper

by misscai



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: !!!!!!, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Fix-It, Romance, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscai/pseuds/misscai
Summary: “It ain’t gonna matter soon. We’ll all be gone. Off bein’ farmers and ranchers instead of thievin’ outlaws.”“Livin’ proper,” Fran agreed with a laugh. “It’ll be good for us.”“Yeah, I think it will.”-Fran and Arthur are ready to get out of the gang life. They put a plan in motion, but Dutch has a plan, too. And his plan -- like most of his plans -- is dangerous. Guns are involved. People get hurt. Arthur watches a sunset.





	Livin' Proper

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR spoilers for anything after Chapter Two!!
> 
> This story mixes canon compliance with canon divergence, and it's my own kind of fix-it (to soothe my poor broken heart after the canon game ending :(( )
> 
> A sequel to Better Dig Two!

Fran is still shaking the next day. She can’t bear to be in Beaver Hollow with the rest of the gang—what’s left of them, anyways. Everywhere she looks, she expects to see the kind smile of Hosea, or to hear Lenny’s still-boyish laughter; to face Sean’s relentless flirtations, or to be greeted with a nod from Molly. But they were all dead now. Dead and gone.

It hurt to lose people to the bullets of enemies, but Molly had been slain by the gunshot of a friend. Fran had watched everything as if in slow motion—the yelling, the accusations, Molly’s confession, and Miss Grimshaw’s scowl as she pointed the shotgun and pulled the trigger. Even more alarming was the way nobody seemed phased. Javier and Micah had hauled Molly’s body away, Miss Grimshaw kicked a bit of dirt to cover the bloodstained ground, and that had been that. Nobody had noticed Fran climbing onto Huck’s back and disappearing into the woods. Nobody had come looking.

She drew her pistol when she heard hooves cracking twigs behind her makeshift camp, but relaxed the moment Arthur’s hat came into view. He dismounted, looping Cassius’s reins to the same log that held Huck’s before coming to sit beside Fran.

“Did you take your medicine?”

“Every bitter drop.” Fran nodded in approval, glancing at him. A soft smile grew on her face.

“You look better already.” The pallor in his face had faded, as had the dark circles under his eyes. Even his breaths were quieter. Something in one of the remedies was curing him. He would live—if the gang didn’t turn on him next…

“You’re thinkin’ awful hard about something,” he noted, nudging her shoulder with his. Fran opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated and closed it instead. Arthur valued loyalty above almost everything else—she feared his hatred if she suggested leaving the gang that he’d considered family for twenty years. But the family, the gang, it was falling apart. She had long been concerned about Dutch’s attitude and actions, and she’d never been fond of Micah, but she’d said nothing because the gang was still safe. Yet now there was the death of Molly at the hands of one of their own, and worse yet, it was condoned by the gang according to their rules. What would happen if Fran found herself in opposition to Dutch? Or Arthur? They could gun him down, too—Micah might even enjoy doing it. Fran couldn’t let that be even a possibility. “Frannie,” Arthur said, pulling her out of her thoughts with a gentle hand that lifted her chin, “talk to me.”

“We gotta go, Arthur,” she whispered, watching his face carefully for any negative reactions. “We gotta get away from them. Dutch and Micah. They’re actin’ foolish, gettin’ us in all kinds of trouble, and people are dying because of it. I don’t want you to be next.” He was quiet for a long moment, just staring at her, but to her relief he nodded.

“Dutch ain’t the same man he used to be. He ain’t ever killed just for killin’. But on that island, he choked the life out of an old woman who’d helped us—said she was gonna set the soldiers on us if he didn’t.” He sighed heavily, and Fran placed a hand on his arm. “And now there’s Molly...”

“She didn’t deserve that,” Fran said, tears stinging her throat once again. She hadn’t been close with the woman, but all the girls in camp had a special kind of camaraderie, and losing Molly so gruesomely hurt. “Not that kind of death.” Silence fell between them, a moment of reflection and grief for their former friend.

Arthur surprised her by taking her hand, lacing their fingers together. He wasn’t much for initiating affection, so when he did, she paid extra attention to him. His gaze was intense when she looked at him. “I wanna take John and Abigail with us, when we go. That little boy deserves more than gang life.”

“Of course. They’re family.” She leaned against him, lifting his hand to her mouth so she could kiss his knuckles. “Where do you want to go?”

“Hell, I… I ain’t sure. Never really thought about it.” He ducked his head, embarrassed. “Never thought I’d get the chance to do anythin’ else.”

“We could buy a ranch,” she said. “Raise horses.”

“Sure,” he nodded. “Sounds nice.”

“Yeah.” She could see it now: sprawling grassland with a fence around it, a herd of mares with their foals, a few stallions in their pens, a sturdy house with a horseshoe nailed to its door for luck. She could picture Arthur singing under his breath while he brushed down the horses, could imagine him learning how to craft saddles and tack when the local shops didn’t have what he wanted. Fran would have a garden, maybe, like her sister had. She’d have chickens. Maybe a dog or two. Maybe they’d spend their evenings in front of a fireplace, their bellies full of fresh-cooked food and their guns out of arms’ reach. Someday, maybe they’d undress by the light of that fire and Arthur would put his baby inside her. It was a long way off, but it was a hope that she hadn’t had a few months ago.

“We’ll have to stay quiet about it,” Arthur told her, and Fran nodded in agreement. If Dutch caught wind of their plans, she wasn’t sure what he’d do—what Micah would goad him into doing. “I’ll talk to John. I think he’s seein’ Dutch the same way we do. He shouldn’t be too hard to convince.” He sighed, rolling the shoulder that Fran wasn’t laying on. She sat up, looking at him properly.

“Arthur,” she said, “I know this feels like leavin’ your family. If you wanna stay, we’ll stay.”

“Sean and Lenny and Hosea… they were my family, too. Now they’re all buried because of the gang.” He scuffed his boot heel in the dirt, flicked a piece of grass off his pants. Fidgeting. Nervous. He wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Besides, I... I’ve got you. ‘S more than I deserve. And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you.” Fran smiled, her heart fluttering in her chest like it was trying to break free of her ribs and soar right into Arthur’s hands. She’d let it.

“We’ll take care of each other. We’ll have a good life.”

“Sure,” Arthur said, giving her a smile of his own.

.

For three weeks after, Fran was equal parts paranoid and eager, and the two sides were often at odds with each other. She could hardly look Dutch in the eye, afraid that the shrewd man would notice something hidden in her face. Luckily, Micah’s poisonous presence gave Dutch little extra attention to spare on her. Nobody noticed when she brought back fewer intact animal carcasses, or when she secretly pocketed trinkets from a robbery. Everything she could get her hands on to sell, she was selling—pelts, meat, jewelry, tonics, even looted weapons. She still gave the gang a regular cut, so no suspicions were raised, but every other penny went into a leather pouch in her sewing kit. When the total grew too large, she set off towards Valentine under the guise of _‘taking a bath that don’t involve river water and sharin’ a bar of soap with you degenerate fools.’_ Her real destination was Emerald Ranch, where she’d charmed a stablehand into stashing her fortune.

“You’re sure this is a good idea, miss?” The young man glanced to be sure the coast was clear before shoving aside a hay bale and lifting the loosened floor board beneath it. The pouch fit perfectly, and Fran relaxed once she knew the money was safely hidden where Dutch would never find it.

“It’s the best one I got,” she replied. “Can’t keep that much on me.”

“I know it ain’t my business, miss, but...” he hesitated, twisting his handkerchief nervously. Fran couldn’t help but feel guilty. He was a shy, sweet boy, with the kind of untested bravado that any wannabe-cowboy possessed. She was putting him in danger with her request; any two-bit robber would beat him senseless—or worse—if they sensed he was hiding money. “If you’re in some kinda trouble, I-I’m sure the boss wouldn’t mind givin’ you a place to stay.”

“I ain’t gonna bring my trouble to you folks.” She leaned against the replaced hay bales, looking towards the barn ceiling with a sigh. “You’re doin’ enough as it is. Which reminds me...” she glanced at him with a wry smile, “you ain’t told me the reward you’re after.”

“Oh, I—… I don’t want a reward, miss. I’d just… Well, I’d feel a lot better if I knew the money’s being used for… honorable purposes.” His blush colored his cheeks bright red. Fran considered her words carefully.

“It’s money for a new life,” she told him. “There’s a family with a little boy, and they’re in a bad place. I’m gonna use the money to help them get away. And I’m gonna go with them, to keep them safe.” Just enough of a twisted truth. The stablehand nodded gravely.

“You’re a good woman, miss. I’ll keep the money safe, you have my word.” He stuck his hand out just a beat too late, making the movement look awkwardly endearing. “Henry Wakefield. My, uh, my pa always said that a promise don’t mean nothing coming from a stranger’s mouth. So...”

“So now we ain’t strangers,” Fran said with a smile, shaking his hand. “Fran Kerrigan.” When voices could be heard approaching, she pulled her hat low on her head and backed out of the stall. “I’ll see you soon, Henry. Thank you.” And with that, she ducked out of the barn, riding away from the ranch before Henry managed to say goodbye.

.

A familiar figure leaned against a tree, guarding the entrance into camp—though he didn’t seem to be doing a good job of it, given the snores drifting out from beneath the lowered brim of his hat. Fran slipped off of Huck’s back and approached Arthur. He was a deep sleeper; he didn’t even stir when she lifted his hat and placed her hand on his forehead. No fever—that was good. His appetite had come back, and he’d complained about one of his shirts being too tight a few days ago. Of course, he’d been embarrassed of the added weight around his midsection, but Fran was relieved to see him getting back to his normal size. It meant he was getting better.

She sat on his lap, jostling him enough to wake him. Still, before he was too coherent to complain, she peppered kisses over both his cheeks. Hands gripped her waist, one thumb rubbing a circle into her left hip. Arthur was smiling at her when she pulled away.

“You’re a terrible guard,” she teased. “You’re lucky it was me that found you.”

“Very lucky indeed.” His flirtation made her blush, and she busied herself with stealing his hat and arranging it atop her own head until the warmth faded. “No troubles on your ride?”

“Nope.” She dropped her voice, just in case anyone was nearby. “I’ve been settin’ some money aside for us. I got it in a safe place, outside the camp.”

“That’s a dangerous game, Frannie,” he said, his expression gone from soft to stern. “You sure nobody saw you hidin’ it away?”

“Positive.” She couldn’t suppress her grin. “It’s a decent bit, Arthur. At least a thousand.” His eyes widened, and he huffed a single, breathy laugh.

“Goddamn, woman, you’re a wonder.” Her heart did a flip, and Fran couldn’t resist the temptation to lean in for a kiss. Her lips never met Arthur’s, however; Micah Bell saw to that.

“Well!” He sauntered up to them with a lit cigarette perched between his lips. “Mr. Morgan, too busy with his woman to protect the rest of us. Wouldn’t Dutch be disappointed.”

“Nothin’s gotten by me, Micah, don’t you worry. Your sorry ass is safe.”

“ _Your_ sorry ass better get movin’. That train ain’t gonna rob itself.” Fran stood, allowing Arthur to do the same. He brushed his hand against the small of her back as he walked away, a simple gesture of affection that Micah wouldn’t see. Fran made motion to follow him, but Micah stepped into her path. “I think you oughta stay behind, Miss Kerrigan. There’s gonna be lots of gunfire,” he paused, leering at her, “and stray bullets can hit _any_ one.” The thinly-veiled threat raised the hairs on the back of Fran’s neck, but she’d be damned if she let him intimidate her.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and one’ll find you.”

“Now, that ain’t a nice thing for a lady to say.”

“Never claimed to be one,” she snapped, trying to sidestep him. Micah grabbed her arm, hauling her backwards. Anger flared in Fran’s gut at being manhandled, especially by him. “Don’t touch me.”

“I don’t take orders from Morgan’s little whore.” His grip turned bruising. “Especially when she’s been stealin’ more than her share.” A cold chill ran up her spine, her stomach clenching. Micah’s grin was feral. “Thought you were clever, didn’tcha? But I know you’re cheatin’ us.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” He shoved her back against the tree, his forearm across her throat. “Then how come I saw you squirrelin’ dollars into your stitching kit?” Before she could answer, he pressed harder. Fran’s air supply cut off completely; she scratched at his arm, but the sleeve protected his skin. “You can’t hide it from me, _Frannie._ My brains ain’t been sucked outta my cock—though you’re welcome to give it a try.” Enraged, Fran gave up on clawing to get free; instead, she hauled her hand back and slapped Micah as hard as she could. Then for good measure, she spat in his face. Micah snarled, yanking her away from the tree only to slam her against it once more. Her teeth rattled together and Fran tasted blood where she must have bitten her tongue.

“What in the hell is goin’ on?” Bill strode up to the two of them, taking Micah by the shoulder and forcibly shoving him away. While Fran was taking in deep, greedy breaths, Bill put his hand on her back. “Y’alright, Kerrigan?”

“Yeah,” she said, “thank you.” Bill had become an unlikely friend to her, the two bonding after Brown Jack had broken his harness and bolted during a storm; Fran had spent an hour in the rain calming him down before he allowed her to lead him back to camp. Since then, Bill had appointed himself as Fran’s big brother. A very protective, very intimidating big brother. One that even Micah wouldn’t challenge.

“She’s a thief, Bill. A thief, a liar, and a whore.” Micah wiped Fran’s saliva off his face, scowling at her. She was pleased to see that his cheek was still reddened by her handprint.

“Where’s your proof?” Bill folded his arms over his chest, making his torso look even broader than usual.

“He ain’t got any,” Fran said with no small amount of venom.

“Bullshit. There’s a leather bag in her tent—she’s hidin’ it with her needle and thread.” Bill glanced between Micah and Fran, then jerked his head towards the camp.

“Let’s go have a look-see.” Fran followed the two men, keeping her mouth shut as Micah spewed vitriol. His boisterous words drew the attention of everyone in camp. All eyes turned towards them. Bill ducked into Fran’s tent just long enough to grab the satchel of her sewing supplies. With an apologetic glance, he dug through its contents until he found the leather pouch.

“You see? She’s been hidin’ money that’s meant to buy our food! Our medicine!” The accusatory finger Micah jabbed at Fran’s chest was smacked away by Arthur.

“You sound like a goddamn fool! She’s been makin’ her donations just like the rest of us!” He planted himself in front of Fran, keeping his gaze locked on Micah even as he motioned towards Dutch’s tent. “Check the ledger; she ain’t hidin’ a damn thing.”

“Ain’t a lick of money in here,” Bill announced, the contents of the leather bag spilled out into his hand: spare needles, extra buttons, patches of fabric, and a thimble that she never bothered using. “She weren’t stealing.”

“ _Apologize,_ ” Arthur growled as he stepped into Micah’s space. The latter man looked like he’d swing a fist, but he never got the chance.

“Enough!” As usual, everyone listened when Dutch’s voice rang out across the camp. He pushed Micah and Arthur apart, keeping one hand on each man’s shoulder. “Now this has been a big misunderstanding, I’m sure we can all agree on that. Mr. Bell raised his concerns, as is his right as a member of this gang, and Miss Kerrigan proved that those concerns were, thankfully, unfounded. We are all going to put this behind us and move on. This is the last score we need, gentlemen. Now, let’s get moving! Mount up!”

Slowly the crowd dispersed. The women went back to their respective tents, though Fran imagined they’d all show up later to ask her what exactly happened. Bill returned the sewing kit to Fran, giving her a pat on the shoulder before he walked away. John caught her eye, giving her a small but meaningful nod that filled her with relief—Arthur had convinced him to take his family and leave the gang before things got worse. Thank God.

“You’re alright? He didn’t hurt you?” Fran shook her head, though Arthur still scrutinized her from head to toe. “Miserable bastard. I hope some railroad guard puts a bullet in his head, before I waste my own ammunition on him.” He cupped her elbows, bending down slightly so that he could look her in the eyes. “Sure you’re alright?”

“I got a bad feelin’,” she confessed. Her instincts were screaming, wanting her to ask Arthur to stay behind. But she knew he’d never let his pseudo-brothers ride into danger without him, so she didn’t ask. Instead she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek into his chest until the buttons of his coat left an imprint in her skin. “You be careful, Arthur Morgan. Come back to me in one piece.”

“Sure,” he said, squeezing her tight before letting her go.

.

Try as she might to distract herself, the anxiety that had taken root in Fran’s stomach wouldn’t dissipate. Nothing could drag her thoughts away from the heist. Abigail noticed her distraction, calling their dominoes game short and frowning at Fran. The younger woman motioned for Abigail to follow her back to her tent; once they were alone, Fran spoke.

“Something ain’t right with this mission,” she said.

“You’re just bein’ paranoid. Micah got you riled up.”

“No, Abigail, I swear it.” Fran strapped her weapons on her person—gun belt around her waist, bandolier across her chest, a knife on the outside of her thigh—and tugged Arthur’s hat lower on her head. “You talked to John? About leavin’?”

“Yeah.” Abigail’s voice dropped, her face going serious. “Pearson, Uncle, and Mary-Beth all took off this mornin’. You think this is it?”

“I ain’t sure. But you should be ready if it is.” Fran ducked out of the tent, headed straight for Huck’s hitching post. “I’m gonna ride out after them.” Before she mounted up, she grasped Abigail’s shoulders. “If Arthur comes back and I ain’t with him—”

“Don’t you say that,” Abigail interrupted, shaking her head.

“ _If_ I ain’t with him,” she repeated forcefully, “you gotta take care of him. Don’t let him stay behind; you have John hogtie him if you have to. But you get him away from Dutch and Micah. Promise me.” Abigail nodded, and Fran released her, swinging herself up into Huck’s saddle. “See you soon, God willing.”

“Be careful,” Abigail called after her as she rode off through the trees.

.

Huck tore down the road along the river, with Fran clutching his reins and praying that she made it in time. All she knew was that the train would be headed north out of Saint Denis; she hoped that she could find the gang somewhere in the marshlands. Every possible scenario had run itself through her head. How she’d rescue the men from a train full of Pinkertons. What she’d do if they couldn’t stop the train before it reached Van Horn. Where she’d toss Micah’s worthless body if he got shot during the robbery—luckily, that answer was simple: the nearest bayou, so she could watch the alligators tear him to pieces.

A train horn drew her attention just as she crossed the border into Lemoyne, and she pulled the reins back. Huck skidded to a halt, prancing restlessly on the road while Fran lifted a set of binoculars to her eyes. The train was coming and coming fast. The popping of gunfire could barely be heard over the engine’s noise, but the flashes of muzzles were unmistakable. Suddenly, one of the middle cars went up in flames.

“Go, Huck, go, go!” He lurched into motion, crashing through trees and underbrush until his hooves thudded against the wooden planks of the railroad tracks. She saw two figures jump off the train and onto the backs of horses. Just a few moments later, when they’d ridden past the burning car, they leapt back onto the train.

Just as Fran took a breath, there was an explosion followed by the screeching of metal grinding against metal. Huck screamed; Fran jerked the reins to the right, narrowly avoiding the final car as it crashed sideways onto the tracks. Through the haze of smoke, Fran could just see a body falling off the train. Her heart seized, and she couldn’t stop the shriek of Arthur’s name that burst from her lips. She urged Huck forward through the wreckage, hardly allowing him to come to a stop before she was dismounting and running towards the body sprawled on the ground.

“Oh, Christ,” she half-sobbed, skidding on her knees in the dirt and flipping the man over so she could see his face. A dizzying, guilty relief flooded over her. “ _John._ ” Blood was leaking from his mouth; more pooled beneath him on the dirt. Yet his chest rose and fell with breath. Fran hastily unbuttoned his shirt and shoved his duster aside, her fingers seeking the wound. No hole, thank God, and no lodged bullet. The shot had grazed his shoulder, slicing his arm but only injuring flesh. She untied the bandanna around her neck and pressed it to the wound. John jolted into consciousness then, groaning in pain. “You’re alright, I gotcha. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Frannie…?” He peered at her through squinted eyes. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

“Takin’ care of you.” She took his hand and pressed it against the bandanna. “Hold tight. I’m gonna get you up onto Huck, and then we’re gonna go find somebody to dress that proper.” She looped an arm around his upper back, easing him to a seated position before she helped him stand. Huck came closer so that Fran could keep John steady as he lifted himself behind the saddle. Once she was certain he was secure, Fran swung up into her seat and set Huck towards home.

They walked so that John’s injury wasn’t overly aggravated. He was weakened, from exhaustion or from blood loss or a mixture of the two, and he leaned against Fran as they rode. She pulled his free hand around her waist, careful not to jostle his shoulder too harshly.

“What happened?” John recounted the story to her, telling her how things had seemed off from the beginning. Micah had been loudly complaining to Dutch about the lack of loyalty in the gang and Dutch hadn’t disagreed with him. The doubt was clearly sinking into his mind.

“Me and Arthur split off to get the dynamite. Dutch didn’t look too happy ‘bout that.” He paused, grunting as Huck jumped over a fallen log in the road. “I bet Micah’s been fillin’ his head with ideas that me and Arthur are plannin’ some kind of revolt.” John sighed forcefully; Fran could feel him shaking his head. “They weren’t on the train, y’know. Micah and Dutch, they were on their horses. They woulda seen me fall, and they didn’t come back for me.” He scoffed. “So much for loyalty.”

“We gotta leave,” Fran told him, and John hummed in agreement. “I told Abigail to get ready.”

“Been lookin’ at some land in New Austin,” he said. “Abigail wants to start a farm—Christ knows how we’re gonna do it, ain’t neither of us had experience.”

“It’s a good idea. But...” Arthur was wanted in New Austin. She didn’t have to say it aloud; John knew.

“He can use a different name. Hell, he could use _your_ name.” Arthur Kerrigan… that was something Fran hadn’t considered. It brought an unexpected warmth to her cheeks. Not as much as thinking of herself as Fran Morgan, but it wasn’t unpleasant at all. “Besides, ain’t any proof that Arthur was in Blackwater that day. Only reason he’s in trouble is ‘cause he’s always with Dutch, and Dutch ain’t exactly the layin’ low type.”

“You’re right about that.” She patted his arm, which had gone slack around her waist. “We gotta move faster. You’re losin’ a lotta blood. I’m gonna get us to the lumber camp, they got a doctor that can stitch you up.”

“Alright.” He draped himself over her back, trying to grip tighter as she spurred Huck into a gallop.

.

The doctor insisted on a full examination after hearing that John fell off a moving train. Fran paced around the camp, worrying about Arthur. If Dutch was as mad as John had said, she didn’t want to leave the two of them alone for long. Especially with that snake Micah hissing in Dutch’s ear. The men in the lumber yard offered her drinks, food, and a place to sit, and Fran accepted them gratefully, but she couldn’t settle her mind.

It took at least an hour, but John emerged from the doctor’s tent looking slightly better than he had. He still held onto his shoulder, putting pressure on the gauze that the doctor had wrapped around it. Fran swung into Huck’s saddle, helping a lumberjack get John seated behind her. She thanked the men, putting Huck back on the road towards Beaver Hollow. They didn’t speak much as they rode, but John did squeeze Fran’s hand at one point.

“He’s alright,” John said. “He was real careful on the train.”

“I’m more worried about after,” she confessed. “Micah’s got Dutch all messed up. He practically raised you and Arthur—I can’t believe he’d leave you both to die.” Arthur had told her about the events that occurred when the gang had raided the oil fields; how he’d called out for Dutch when an oil man had pinned him with a knife to his throat, and how Dutch had walked away. It had clearly shaken Arthur’s faith in the man. Fran thought that might have been the catalyst for him agreeing to leave with her.

“It ain’t gonna matter soon. We’ll all be gone. Off bein’ farmers and ranchers instead of thievin’ outlaws.”

“Livin’ proper,” Fran agreed with a laugh. “It’ll be good for us.”

“Yeah, I think it will.” They fell silent as they approached Beaver Hollow, but before they rode into camp, John tugged on the reins and brought Huck to a halt. “Somethin’ ain’t right.” Fran frowned, listening intently. She could hear several raised voices, then the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped.

“Let’s go.” In one smooth motion she dismounted, reaching back up to help John down. They rushed into camp, taking in the situation as they walked: Micah and Arthur had guns pointed at each other, the other members of the gang taking up positions on one side or the other, with Dutch standing at the front of his tent like a preacher at a pulpit. Nobody noticed their arrival.

“Milton told me everything,” Arthur was saying. “Micah talked. He betrayed us.”

“That’s a goddamn lie,” Micah hissed. Dutch didn’t say a word, looking between the two men. “Be practical, Dutch.”

“Think about it.” Arthur’s gaze flicked to Dutch, but his shotgun stayed trained on Micah. “Everything started goin’ wrong when he showed up. He led the Pinkertons to our camps. He tipped them off about our plans.” When Dutch still didn’t respond, Arthur’s voice snapped out in a shout. “ _Dutch!_ ”

“Dutch!” Fran was surprised to hear the voice come from beside her. John strode forward, gripping his wounded arm. It had started to bleed again, red seeping through the bandage; he must have popped a stitch. All eyes turned to them. “You left me!”

“John...” The gang leader’s eyes were wide, but Fran couldn’t see any relief in them.

“You left me to die back there! You didn’t even come look for me!”

“I...” Fran thought he might lie, or give some pretty speech that made everything seem like it was going according to plan. She thought he might even apologize. Instead, Dutch sighed. “I had no choice.”

“You said John was dead.” Bill was standing behind Micah, but his gaze moved to Fran. She shook her head. The man’s jaw visibly clenched and he crossed the invisible line in the sand, taking up his place beside Arthur and John. After a moment, Miss Grimshaw did the same. 

“So much for loyalty.” Micah spat in the dirt.

“Loyalty?” Fran laughed mirthlessly, joining the group and drawing her pistol to level the barrel at Micah’s head. “That word’s got no place in your filthy fucking mouth.”

“Cocksucking whore,” he said, his voice full of venom.

“Traitorous _rat,_ ” she replied with equal hatred.

Arthur had told Fran what it felt like when he got into a gunfight. How his focus narrowed on his targets, how the rest of the world slowed and faded away into shades of sepia. The way he knew where each bullet would land as if the targets were lit up with red X’s. It didn’t happen like that for Fran. When Javier shouted that Pinkertons were coming, and when the shooting started, everything moved so quickly. Gunshots rang in her ears. Muzzle flashes blinded her. Miss Grimshaw’s body dropped at her feet. Fran fired, fired, and fired again, on and on until she heard Micah’s voice calling out from the forest, taunting them as he and Dutch made their escape. Fran’s face twisted into a snarl; she made ready to leap out of cover and chase the bastards down, but Arthur grabbed her arm.

“We gotta move,” he said. “Into the caves.”

“But Micah—”

“We’ll get ‘im. Right now we gotta go.” She followed him through the winding cave system, but her limbs grew heavier and heavier with each step. When they reached the ladder to the exit, Fran only made it up four rungs before her arms lost their strength and she thudded back to the ground. “Frannie!” Arthur slid down the ladder, kneeling at her side and helping her to sit up.

“Ain’t feelin’ well,” Fran said, finally becoming aware of a burning ache in her side. She glanced down; Arthur followed her gaze. Blood rolled, sticky and hot, out of a bullet wound right below her ribcage. “Ah.”

“’S alright.” He was already digging through his satchel, producing a handful of yarrow leaves and crushing them into dust before packing the wound tightly. Fran tried not to yelp, biting her lip even as tears leaked from her squeezed-shut eyes. Arthur worked fast, placing his bandanna over the wound and then strapping his belt around her waist to hold everything in place. Then he lifted her to her feet, following behind her as she made her way up the ladder to the forest outside.

“Pinkertons are still on us,” Bill reported, already mounted on Brown Jack and with Cassius and Huck behind him. Arthur hoisted Fran into Huck’s saddle and ensured she was stable before he mounted up. “We gotta get the hell outta here.”

“And fast,” John agreed. The group spurred their horses into action, tearing through the woods with very little care as to their destination. Fran gripped Huck’s saddle horn desperately, trying to ignore the pain in her side. They broke into a clearing, each of the horses speeding up now that they didn’t have to dodge trees—but a line of Pinkerton agents had taken up position on the hill that marked the opposite end of the clearing.

“Shit!” Fran didn’t know who had uttered the curse. It didn’t matter. They were all thinking the same thing. Gunshots rang out, from revolvers and rifles on both sides. Huck reared up, protecting Fran from the bullets but taking them himself. Fran knew, as their bodies hit the ground, that he was already dead. It didn’t stop the tears from falling down her cheeks. She huddled behind Huck’s body, watching the carnage through blurry eyes. Cassius and Old Boy had fallen, too. Bill and Brown Jack were nowhere to be found—hopefully they’d managed to escape into the woods.

“Frannie!” Arthur took up position beside her, firing his pistol one-handed and dropping the final Pinkerton. “We gotta go, c’mon.” He looped one of her arms around his shoulders, helping to take her weight as they followed John up a rocky cliff. The Pinkertons were right on their tail, though; bullets pinged off the rocks at their feet. Fran stumbled, dropping to her knees behind a boulder. Her wound pulsed with every heartbeat. “C’mon,” Arthur encouraged, gripping her arm as if to hoist her back up. Fran pulled free, then squeezed his hand.

“You go. Go with John.” Arthur was already shaking his head; Fran kept talking. “Get him to his family. Get yourself safe. When you’re ready, all the money I hid is at Emerald Ranch. Find Henry—tell him you know me. He knows where it is.”

“I ain’t leavin’ without you.”

“I ain’t askin’,” she replied, kissing his palm and then releasing him. “I’m tellin’ you. Go.”

“No.”

“He’s your brother, Arthur. Get him to his family.” He was going to protest, she could see it, but the Pinkertons were too close. Instead, he released a frustrated growl, leaning down to kiss her forehead before he pressed her firmly against the rock.

“Stay here. I’m comin’ back for you.”

“Okay,” she breathed, “now _go._ ” Arthur took one last lingering look, then spun on his heel and followed John further up the hill.

.

The final gunshots rang out; all the Pinkertons were dead or gone. Fran waited anxiously, twisting her fingers tighter and tighter in her shirt until she heard Arthur’s spurs jingling with his footsteps. She sobbed with relief when she saw him approach, relaxing against the boulder—until a movement on a higher outcropping caught her attention. Micah Bell tackled Arthur to the ground, pinning him and landing punch after punch on his face.

“I got you now!” His cackle was manic. “Oh, you don’t know how _long_ I’ve waited for this!”

“You rat!” Arthur seized Micah’s shoulders, flipping their positions and busting his nose. Micah broke free with a kick to Arthur’s gut; the two men scrambled to their feet, fighting and grunting and slinging insults back and forth. When Micah shoved Arthur against the cliff with a sickening crack of bone on rock, Fran made her move. She rushed forward, drawing her knife from her belt and sinking it deep into Micah’s back. He snarled, jerking away from Arthur and staggering backwards. Even as his blood spattered on the rock below, he was arrogant, sending a leer towards Fran.

“Morgan’s little whore,” he greeted her. “I thought I shot you.”

“Oh, you did,” she said, motioning towards the makeshift dressing on her midsection. “Wasn’t enough to kill me, though.”

“What a shame.”

“Ain’t it just.” She moved to stand between Micah and Arthur. “I oughta watch you bleed out right here, but I ain’t wastin’ that kinda time on you.” With that, she drew Arthur’s pistol and—without hesitation—shot right between Micah’s eyes. His body dropped. Fran didn’t spare another glance for him, turning to Arthur and examining the back of his head. It was bleeding, but not profusely; he’d be just fine.

“Hey,” Arthur said, placing his hands on her shoulders and offering her one of those small, rare smiles. “We’re alright.”

“We are.” Fran beamed up at him, weary but relieved.

“C’mere.” He led her to the edge of the cliff, both of them taking a seat with their legs hanging over the rock. There was silence, finally. No more gunshots, no shouts, nothing but the rustle of wind through the trees below. Fran leaned against Arthur, resting her head on his shoulder. The sun was setting in front of them.

“John made it out okay?”

“Sure. He’s headed to Copperhead Landing. Sadie’s waitin’ with Jack and Abigail there.”

“Good.” She was quiet for a moment. As much as she’d wanted to be free of the gang, some part of her hadn’t believed it would happen. Now it _had_ happened, and she didn’t know what was supposed to come next.

“Me an’ Sadie cleared out a ranch full of O’Driscolls a while back, north of Strawberry.” He tapped his boot against the rock face, flexing his fingers before lacing them together in his lap. Fidgeting, nervous. Like he had been all those weeks ago, when they’d first talked about leaving the gang. “Don’t think anybody’d mind if we took it over. If you… still wanted to. That is.”

“Arthur Morgan,” Fran said softly, tilting her head up so she could kiss his neck, “there ain’t nothin’ I’d like better.”


End file.
